


On Doomsday Eve, I Sat and Wept

by RonnaWren (Wolf_of_Lilacs)



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Kissing, M/M, No Minced Words, Pence and Kaine Walk into a Bar, Post-debate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 14:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8581849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_of_Lilacs/pseuds/RonnaWren
Summary: The VP debate goes differently, but little changes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Make no mistake that Mike Pence is terrible, no matter how he seems here.

Tim had never enjoyed anything as much as this debate. With each interjection he makes, Pence appears to choke on the remains of his political career.

"There were a lot of creative lines in there," Pence notes, as Tim reaches the end of his extended soliloquy against Trump's foreign policy.

"Now I want to see if you can defend any of it." Tim waits. As he expected, Pence stumbles.

"I can— I can defend—" Pence raises his hand, as if to halt the continuous barrage. "No, I can't. Donald Trump and I disagree on nearly everything related to foreign policy."

"I know you do," Tim replies, triumphant. "But despite that, you'll stay on the ticket. That's how political insiders are."

The audience laughs. Pence droops. "Quiet, please!" Quijano says brusquely.

"Governor, when Trump says that Mexicans are rapists, he's showing you who he is." 

"Senator, you've whipped out that—that Mexican thing again—"

"Can you defend it?"

Fully losing his patronizing calm, the beleaguered Pence splutters, "No, I can't do this anymore. I give up. I can't defend anything he says. I especially can't 'defend' it when I agree. Or not. Maybe you're right about implicit bias. Just—"

Everything seems sharper. How much more can Pence break?

"Governor, I'm still trying to interrupt you. Why did you stop talking?" Hell yes, this is better than he could have dreamed.

"Because I'm done. I'm having a completely out-of-character and unprecedented epiphany about my life choices."

Quijano attempts to corral them. "Gentlemen, this is a debate. Respect that! I have no idea what you two are doing here."

"Sorry," Pence murmurs. Quijano frowns ferociously.

"If you aren't in the mood to defend your running mate, then let's ditch this thing and get drinks. Attacking you when you've given up seems unfair," Tim quips. (But far from boring. He could do this all night.)

"Fine. But you're buying."

"Why not." Tim draws Pence's arm over his shoulders and leads him from the Flag-studded stage.

Quijano stares after them in dismay. "This is worse than I expected. ... Fuck you, network execs." (The networks, not anticipating such language, do not Bleep her out, and America cheers.)

The establishment in which Pence and Kaine end up is run-down and nearly empty, therefore ideal. In a more respectable place, they risked being mobbed by hecklers and admirers alike, though Tim doubts many would recognize them anyway. "What can I get you, Senator? and for ... who are you?" the bartender asks, looking as if their mere presence is the most interesting event to take place on the premises.

Tim smirks. "This is Trump's running mate."

"Ah." The bartender's expression does not change.

"And a beer for me."

"Strongest whiskey you got," adds Pence, causing Tim to wince.

Pence sits across from Tim in tears, nursing his third (or fourth?) drink, his head propped up on one hand. "I've never been this stupid in my life," he groans. "What did I do to deserve any of this? They said if Trump won, I'd be President. They said— I wanted to be President! Indiana hates me. Everyone hates me."

"Oh, I don't hate you, Mike," Tim says, reaching across the table and taking his hand. (Hate you? After this, Hillary won't sideline me ever again!)

"No? But you think I'm contemptible for ignoring all the bigoted things Trump spews just so I might be President." Pence returns Tim's grip with a desperation that somehow still manages to surprise him.

"Maybe," Tim hedges. "You're not much better than he is. Unlike him, you can put a pleasant face to it."

"No, that isn't true," protests Pence.

"Refusing to release an innocent man? Considering Mexicans 'that thing?' Denying scientific evidence on multiple grounds? Supporting Trump's misogyny, and refusing to trust women to make their own choices? You ... don't see anything wrong with this?" Mentioning the "religious freedom" shit wouldn't make an impression, Tim suspects.

Pence shakes his head, as if to dislodge a fly. "No. No, I'm not like him. I can't be ..." He gazes into Tim's eyes. "Please tell me I'm not."

"I'm sorry." Tim keeps his expression neutral, though it's difficult. "I can't tell you that." 

"I know. I can barely tell myself that." Pence lowers his gaze to Tim's mouth. Outwardly, Tim sighs; inwardly, he crows. The governor may not be as pure as his ideology suggests. Tim nods, and leans toward him. Pence gives a slight smile, and their lips meet.

"I'll just be in the back while you guys, um ..." Neither hears the bartender as he rushes from the room.

***

Mike had not expected to spend his evening like this. Kissing a man was not a new experience for him, God knew, but never had it been so fulfilling. Kaine's enthusiasm matches his desperation; his desperation knows no bounds.

***

It would be untruthful to claim kissing Pence is unenjoyable. Tim can taste his cheap whiskey and his tears and relishes them. Pence clings to him, as if seeking absolution.

"Everything will work out, love," Tim murmurs against Pence's mouth, as he carts a hand through his silvery hair. "You and he will lose, and you can go home to your sexist, homophobic paradise in peace."

"I hope not," Pence replies shakily, pulling back for a moment. "That we won't lose, I mean," he adds, when Tim raises an eyebrow.

"Ah. Thanks for clarifying. I thought for a moment there you were questioning your views again."

"Don't assume your views are correct, Tim," Pence says resignedly. "Now can we get back to what we were doing?"

Tim laughs. "Yes indeed." And they do, with satisfactory results. 

As the last of the (shocking, horrifying) returns come in on Election Night, Tim's phone rings. "Oh, hello Mike. How are you?" The words scrape painfully from his throat.

"How do you think?" Pence's voice vibrates with suppressed exultation, and it sickens him. "How else should I be?"

"Hmm, no doubt far better than you expected," Tim snaps.

"You have no idea," Pence replies, clearly content. Tim is reminded of a cat, preening and cleaning its whiskers after catching a mouse.

"How does it feel now that the American people have rejected your corrupt, sold-out, criminal candidate?" Pence asks.

Tim ignores this. "This is the worst night of my life! Hillary could have been the first female president, but the country rejected her for a racist, misogynist authoritarian. I could have been second fiddle to her. Now ..."

"She's so corrupt, though. America was right to reject her." Pence sounds almost reassuring. "I'm sure Trump didn't win because people won't vote in a woman for president."

"Maybe a bit corrupt, but she's got nothing on your guy," Tim replies.

Pence snorts in derision. "Goodbye, Tim," he says. "I enjoyed our camaraderie after the debate." 

"I'm sure you did—"

"You didn't?"

"That's beside— That is," Tim trails away in confusion. Had he enjoyed it, for him, rather than the effect it had on Pence? "Yes, I guess I did."

"I'm glad," Pence ventures. He falls silent for a moment, as if unsure how to continue. "And ... I look forward to working with you as Vice President, and soon enough as President. God knows Trump won't last."

"Fine, fine," Tim replies awkwardly. "Goodbye." Tim ends the call in a rush, bitter that he had failed Hillary; certain Mike Pence will ensure his own continued descent to hell; sick that a candidate like Trump has trampled over everything the country was supposed to hold dear. Yet he cannot help the nagging feeling that he, like Pence, is complicit in aiding a candidate who did not deserve to win. 

Tim's moral high ground may be a delusion.


End file.
